A few weeks ago, I was up for a pretty big award.
Young Entrepreneur of the Year.
Sounds impressive when you say it out loud.

The kind of thing people dress up for.
The kind of event where everyone claps politely and pretends the canapés aren’t awful.
The kind of night where, if you win, they hand you a trophy made of glass and adjectives.

There was only one problem.

I had accidentally double-booked the night… with Halloween.

And if you’ve ever had to choose between trick-or-treating with your kids and sitting in a hotel ballroom listening to speeches, you’ll know it’s not a decision at all.

So while everyone else was getting photos in front of media walls and drinking champagne with their “Congratulations!” faces on…
I was sprinting down the street in the rain, trying to keep two small humans alive, upright, and semi-dry.

One child was dressed as the clown from IT.
The other was some kind of zombie cheerleader hybrid created purely so she could still look 'pretty'.
Both were yelling.
Both were hyped on sugar.
And both needed me far more than that room of adults ever would.

So I went trick-or-treating.
In the rain.
Soaked.
Carrying umbrellas, lolly buckets, and the weight of a decision that felt big… until it suddenly didn’t.

Because standing there watching my kids run ahead laughing, I realised something:

We spend so much of our lives chasing praise from people who don’t matter… and not nearly enough time showing up for the people who do.

Here’s the funny part.

I won that award.

Somewhere across the city, my name was announced to a room I wasn’t in.
People applauded.
A trophy was held up.
I imagine someone took a photo of the empty stage like, “Oh… he’s… not here?” (I did have one of my team members go on my behalf, though!)

Meanwhile, I was wiping rain out of my eyes, holding a half-melted lollipop, and making sure nobody slipped over on a wet driveway.

It was the most unglamorous victory speech of all time.

But honestly?

It felt right.
Maybe even poetic.

Awards are external.
Kids are internal.
One feeds your ego.
The other feeds your soul.

And the older I get, the more obvious the difference feels.

Let’s talk about this for a second.

Awards feel good.
Praise feels good.
Being called “Entrepreneur of the Year” hits the same dopamine centre as finding $20 in an old jacket.

But here’s the truth, the Stoics knew long before self-help influencers turned it into content:

Praise is borrowed.
It belongs to the people giving it — not you.

It gets handed out, then taken back the moment someone newer, shinier, or louder shows up.

External validation is like dessert — delicious, exciting, temporary.
You can enjoy it… just don’t rely on it to feed you.

Because when the clapping stops, you’re still left with you.
Your thoughts.
Your choices.
Your character.

A trophy doesn’t make you a better parent.
A title doesn’t make you a better leader.
A plaque doesn’t tell your kids what kind of dad you were.

Here’s the part that hit me hardest:

One day, none of this will matter.
None of it.

Not the awards.
Not the accolades.
Not the social posts or titles or LinkedIn banners.

When you zoom out far enough, it’s all dust.

Marcus Aurelius said:

“Fame is a vapour, popularity an accident.”

And he was the Emperor of Rome.
If anyone could brag, it was him.
And even he knew it was meaningless.

Your kids won’t remember where you ranked in business.
They won’t remember the trophy on your shelf.
They won’t remember the speech you didn’t give.

They will remember that you showed up in the rain.
That you kept your promise.
That you made the night fun, even when it was miserable.
That you were there — really there.

Legacy comes from presence, not applause.

Some people asked if I regret not going.
Not even a little.

If anything, I’m grateful.

Because that night clarified something for me:

There’s a version of your life that boosts your reputation… and a version that builds your relationships.

One is loud.
One is quiet.

One gets you a trophy.
One gets you a memory.

One impresses strangers.
One shapes the people who will carry your story long after you’re gone.

Halloween in the rain wasn’t glamorous — but it was honest, meaningful, and entirely mine.

And if that’s what “missing out” looks like,
I’ll miss out again gladly.

Whose praise are you chasing?
And whose presence are you missing because of it?

If you zoomed out far enough — to the end of your life, or even just the end of this year — what would actually matter?

Think about that.
Then choose accordingly.

PS. The trophy looks nice on the shelf, but the memory of my kids laughing in the rain… that one stays with me forever. Plus, the kids have already forgotten what it was for.

If this gave you something to think about (or at least made you laugh at my chaos), feel free to forward it to someone who might enjoy it.

If this was forwarded to you and you want to get these straight from me each week, you can sign up here: brodenjohnson.co​

Until next time,

Broden Johnson